Lucien said evenly, “Perhaps. But we need to find that out. If Beron or Eris has that information, they’ll use it to their advantage in that meeting—to control it. Or control you. Or they might not show up at all, and instead go right to Hybern.”
Cassian swore softly, and I was inclined to echo the sentiment.
Rhys swirled his wine once, set it down, and said to Lucien, “You and Azriel should talk. Tomorrow.”
Lucien glanced toward the shadowsinger—who only nodded at him. “I’m at your disposal.”
None of us were dumb enough to ask if he’d be willing to reveal details on the Spring Court. If he thought that Tamlin would arrive. That was perhaps a conversation best left for another time. With just him and me.
Rhys leaned back in his seat. Contemplating—something. His jaw tightened, then he let out a near-silent huff of air. Steeling himself.
For whatever he was about to reveal, whatever plans he had decided not to reveal until now. And even as my stomach tightened, some sort of thrill went through me at it—at that clever mind at work.
Until Rhys said, “There is another meeting that needs to be had—and soon.”
CHAPTER
18
“Please don’t say we need to go to the Court of Nightmares,” Cassian grumbled around a mouthful of food.
Rhys lifted a brow. “Not in the mood to terrorize our friends there?”
Mor’s golden face paled. “You mean to ask my father to fight in this war,” she said to Rhys.
I reined in my sharp intake of breath.
“What is the Court of Nightmares?” Nesta demanded.
Lucien answered for us. “The place where the rest of the world believes the majority of the Night Court to be.” He jerked his chin at Rhys. “The seat of his power. Or it was.”
“Oh, it still is,” Rhys said. “To everyone outside Velaris.” He leveled a steady look at Mor. “And yes. Keir’s Darkbringer legion is considerable enough that a meeting is warranted.”
The last meeting had resulted in Keir’s arm being shattered in so many places it had gone saggy. I doubted the male would be inclined to help us anytime soon—perhaps why Rhys wanted this meeting.
Nesta’s brows narrowed. “Why not just order them? Don’t they answer to you?”
Cassian set down his fork, food forgotten. “Unfortunately, there are protocols in place between our two subcourts regarding this sort of thing. They mostly govern themselves—with Mor’s father their steward.”
Mor’s throat bobbed. Azriel watched her carefully, his mouth a tight line.
“The steward of the Hewn City is legally entitled to refuse to aid my armies,” Rhys explained to Nesta, to me. “It was part of the agreement my ancestor made with the Court of Nightmares all those thousands of years ago. They would remain within that mountain, would not challenge or disturb us beyond its borders … and would retain the right to decide not to assist in war.”
“And have they—refused?” I asked.
Mor nodded gravely. “Twice. Not my father.” She nearly choked on the word. “But … there were two wars. Long, long ago. They chose not to fight. We won, but … barely. At great cost.”
And with this war upon us … we would need every ally we could muster. Every army.
“We leave in two days,” Rhys said.
“He’ll say no,” Mor countered. “Don’t waste your time.”
“Then I shall have to find a way to convince him otherwise.”
Mor’s eyes flashed. “What?”
Azriel and Cassian shifted in their seats, and Amren clicked her tongue at Rhys. Disapproval.
“He fought in the War,” Rhys said calmly. “Perhaps we’ll be lucky this time, too.”
“I’ll remind you that the Darkbringer legion was nearly as bad as the enemy when it came to their behavior,” Mor said, pushing her plate away.
“There will be new rules.”
“You will not be in a position to make rules, and you know it,” Mor snapped.
Rhys only swirled his wine again. “We’ll see.”
I glanced to Cassian. The general shook his head subtly. Stay out of this one. For now.
I swallowed, nodding back with equal faintness.
Mor whipped her head toward Azriel. “What do you think?”
The shadowsinger held her stare, his face unreadable. Considering. I tried not to hold my breath. Defending the female he loved or siding with his High Lord … “It’s not my call to make.”
“That’s a bullshit answer,” Mor challenged.
I could have sworn hurt flickered in Azriel’s eyes, but he only shrugged, his face again a mask of cold indifference. Mor’s lips pursed.
“You don’t need to come, Mor,” Rhys said with that calm, even voice.
“Of course I’m coming. It’ll make it worse if I’m not there.” She drained her wine in one swift tilt of her head. “I suppose I have two days now to find a dress suitable to horrify my father.”
Amren, at least, chuckled at that, Cassian rumbling a laugh as well.
But Rhys watched Mor for a long minute, some of the stars in his eyes winking out. I debated asking if there was some other way, some path to avoid this awfulness between us, but … Earlier, I had snapped at him. And with Lucien and my sister here … I kept my mouth shut.
Well, about that matter. In the silence that fell, I scrambled for any scrap of normalcy and turned again to Cassian. “Let’s train at eight tomorrow. I’ll meet you in the ring.”
“Seven thirty,” he said with a disarming grin—one that most of his enemies would likely run from. Lucien went back to picking at his food. Mor refilled her wineglass, Azriel monitoring every move she made, his fork clenched in his scarred hand.
“Eight,” I countered with a flat look. I turned to Nesta, silent and watchful through all of this. “Care to join?”
“No.”
The beat of silence was too pointed to be dismissed. But I gave my sister a casual shrug, reaching for the wine jug. Then I said to none of them in particular, “I want to learn how to fly.”
Mor spewed her wine across the table, splattering it right across Azriel’s chest and neck. The shadowsinger was too busy gawking at me to even notice.
Cassian looked torn between howling at Azriel and gaping.
My magic was still too weak to grow those Illyrian wings, but I gestured to the Illyrians and said, “I want you to teach me.”
Mor blurted, “Really?” while Lucien—Lucien—said, “Well, that explains the wings.”
Nesta leaned forward to appraise me. “What wings?”
“I can—shape-shift,” I admitted. “And with the oncoming conflict,” I declared to all of them, “knowing how to fly might be … useful.” I jerked my chin toward Cassian, who now studied me with unnerving intensity—sizing me up. “I assume the battles against Hybern will include Illyrians.” A shallow nod from the general. “Then I plan to fight with you. In the skies.”
I waited for the objections, for Rhys to shut it down.
There was only the howling wind outside the dining room windows.
Cassian whooshed out a breath. “I don’t know if it’s technically even possible—time-wise. You’d have to learn not only how to fly, but how to bear the weight of your shield and weapons—and how to work within an Illyrian unit. It takes us decades to master that last part alone. We have months at best—weeks at worst.”
My chest sank a bit.
“Then we’ll teach her what we know until then,” Rhys said. But the stars in his eyes turned stone-cold as he added, “I’ll give her any shot at an advantage—at getting away if things go to shit. Even a day of training might make a difference.”
Azriel tucked in his wings, his beautiful features uncharacteristically soft. Contemplative. “I’ll teach you.”
“Are you … certain?” I asked.
The unreadable mask slipped back over Azriel’s face. “Rhys and Cass were taught how to fly so young that they barely remember i
t.”
But Azriel, locked in his hateful father’s dungeons like some criminal until he was eleven, denied the ability to fly, to fight, to do anything his Illyrian instincts screamed at him to do …
Darkness rumbled down the bond. Not anger at me, but … as Rhys, too, remembered what had been done to his friend. He’d never forgotten. None of them had. It was an effort not to look at the brutal scars coating Azriel’s hands. I prayed Nesta wouldn’t inquire about it.
“We’ve taught plenty of younglings the basics,” Cassian countered.